Cheater
by pgrabia
Summary: A little fic about how I wish Episode 8x20 "Post-Mortem" had ended, since the canon version was just too depressing. House/Wilson pre-slash/slash. Spoilers for all seasons and episodes up to/ including episode 8x20. Some coarse language adult concepts.
1. Chapter 1 Cheater

**Title: ****Cheater**

**Author: pgrabia**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D. and its characters do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes only and I'm not making any money from this.

**Genre: **Drama/Romance

**Characters/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson/ House/Wilson slash.

**Word Count: **~2100

**Spoilers/Warnings: **General spoilers for all seasons up to and including episode 8x20 "Post-Mortem".

**Rating: R (M) **(to be safe)

**A/N: **How _I_ wish this episode had ended. A re-working of the final scene in Episode 8x20. Thanks to Clinic-Duty community on LJ for the transcript of the final scene up to where my fic deviates from canon!

Unbetaed, sorry.

**Cheater**

The light from the CT monitor in the control booth lit up House's face with an eerie glow. Inside the CT was Wilson, lying almost deathly skill as the machine scanned and took images of his chest where his diseased thymus was located. House was waiting for the images of the thymus to come into view when the door to the control booth opened and Chase stepped inside.

"Any news?" Chase asked quietly, his eyes moving from House to the monitor to the machine where Wilson lay.

House knew why his longest serving Fellow was there and had mixed feelings about it, which actually surprised him.

"Not yet," he answered. "You come here so I could talk you out of it?" _Out of finally spreading your wings and flying on your own? _

"I came to say thank you," Chase told him.

House looked at him, saw the hand extended out to him, and after a moment of hesitation took it and shook it. So this really was it. House had sensed this change in the wind for a while already, but now that it was happening he was actually a little sad to see the younger doctor go; sad and a tad bit proud. He silently chided himself for his emotionalism.

Uncertain of what to say, House simply told him, "It's been fun."

Chase raised a questioning eyebrow. "Fun?"

House half-shrugged. "Sounded pithier than 'we've shared a variety of situations.'"

Chase said nothing to that, but instead looked through the window at Wilson in the other room. His brow was slightly furrowed with concern. "Let me know about Wilson," he instructed his former mentor, employer, and pseudo-father figure.

House nodded in agreement, then watched as Chase walked out of the booth for the last time. There was a hollow little feeling in House's chest akin to a sense of loss, an emotion he was all too aware of and was among his most hated. However, House knew that in this case Chase's leaving was the beginning of something potentially greater for both the younger doctor and diagnostic medicine at large.

Any consideration of losing the man being scanned in the other room was forbidden as far as House was concerned. He would not entertain such a thought; he couldn't.

"Why did you let him go?"

House started slightly, realizing he'd been lost in his own thoughts and now was brought back to reality by Wilson's simple question coming over the intercom.

"Legal loophole," House replied drily. "13th Amendment. Abraham Lincoln may have looked great in that hat, but his labor policies…." His voice trailed off when he glanced at the monitor to see the image he'd been waiting for on display. He couldn't tear his eyes away from what he saw. Despite expecting something to be different in this scan from the last one, he hadn't expected _this_.

Wilson must have noticed his shocked expression because House heard him address him but couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen for several more seconds, much less reply.

When he did manage to look away from the monitor, he saw the frightened and somewhat defeated look in Wilson's warm brown eyes.

"Wilson," House told him quickly, "it's not what you think. The thymoma—It's…it's gone. Completely gone! There isn't so much as a speck on the screen. Your foolhardy, life-threatening, ass-backward treatment worked!"

"You better not be shitting me, House," Wilson warned him, the defeat leaving his eyes and hope replacing it. "Because if you are—"

House was smiling now; he shook his head and looked back and forth between Wilson and the monitor.

"I'm not joking, Wilson. The cancer…I can't see any of it left. You son of a bitch! You cheated death! That's my shtick, but I guess I'll let you borrow it just once!"

Wilson allowed himself a tentative smile, turning to stare up at the ceiling and think about this and what it meant. After weeks of worry and preparing himself for the worst, having good news now was almost anti-climactic and Wilson appeared as if he was uncertain whether to laugh or cry.

House noticed this and frowned slightly. "You don't look like you're all that pleased about learning that you're going to live."

Not meeting House's gaze, Wilson replied softly, "I…I am glad, I think. No, I'm certain I'm glad. It's just that…are you _certain_ there's nothing there? Not a shadow, anything?"

"I'm not some kid straight out of medical school," House replied, rolling his eyes. "Of course I'm certain. Let's get you out of there and then we can celebrate!"

"Yeah," Wilson murmured softly, his smile waning a little. "Celebrate…."

…

After spending nearly twenty minutes going over his own films with a fine-tooth comb Wilson finally conceded that there was no visual sign of the thymoma left. House had expected his friend to be initially surprised and skeptical but after viewing the films to be relieved and excited. Wilson was neither. He looked, in a word, lost. In spite of that, he agreed to celebrate his new lease on life with House. They did so in their traditional way: by getting shit-faced drunk on House's sofa in front of a pre-recorded episode of the L-Word and a box of pizza delivery.

House was fully aware of the fact that there was something eating at Wilson and that sober the younger man would lie if asked about it. Alcohol, however, had a way of lubricating Wilson's lips. Before he allowed himself to become completely inebriated, House waited until Wilson had had a couple or three beers before broaching the subject.

"Your life expectancy doesn't have to define you, Wilson."

Wilson took a pull off his beer, pointedly staring at the TV rather than House. "It's not that."

"Then what is it? You're less fun than a proctology exam."

Setting his bottle down onto the coffee table, Wilson then rose to his feet and headed to the door. House was behind him as quickly as he was able, standing between him and the exit.

Wilson's hands settled on his hips, and after rolling his eyes he leveled them on House's. His gaze was intense.

"You wouldn't understand, House."

"Try me."

A bitter smile came to Wilson's lips, and he shook his head. "You know, when there's something that needs to be talked about you avoid doing so like the plague, but when there's nothing—"

"There's _something_," House insisted, cutting him off mid-sentence. "What—are you disappointed that the nurses won't be tripping over themselves to console you now? Sorry that you won't be joining Amber in the great unknown as soon as you thought? Pissed that you no longer have an excuse to feel sorry for yourself? What?"

"This!" Wilson exploded, then pulled back, withdrew into himself for a moment to control his temper. When he felt calm enough, he continued. "When you thought I was dying you were…different. It would be exaggerating things to say that you were 'nice' or 'kind' to me but…but you were less of an ass than you usually are and more like something resembling a friend who cared about me."

"Please, I'm blushing," House retorted sarcastically.

"You know—forget it. Just forget it. I'm going home." Wilson made to go around him but House moved to block his path again.

"You've had too much to drink," House told him.

"Then I'll call a cab," Wilson told him, pulling out his cellphone. House snatched it out of his hand. "House!"

"Crash here," House told him, backing away with the phone.

"I'll call from the payphone down the block," Wilson informed him, his anger rising again.

"No, don't," House insisted, still trying to head off Wilson's attempts to leave.

"Damn it, House, get the hell out of my way!" Wilson shouted. "Gah! You don't get it, do you?"

"You think now that you're not dying I'm going to treat you like crap again," House guessed confidently. "But that's what you like about me, Wilson. That's what works for us. No pretense. No social contract."

"Remember when I told you that I didn't like you?" Wilson spat.

"Wilson," House insisted, getting in his face, "what will get you out of this funk you're in? Just tell me what the hell it is you want?"

Suddenly the anger was more than Wilson could contain and it came out explosively. "You!" he shouted, closing what gap there was left between him and the diagnostician before grabbing House by the scruff of the neck and pulling their mouths together. He kissed House hard and passionately, not taking any resistance or rejection, bruising House's lips with his own. When House stiffened but failed to pull away as Wilson had expected him to do, he wrapped one arm around House's waist and pulled his stiffened body flush against him at the same time he pressed his tongue hard against House's tightened lips, trying to force his way into the older man's mouth.

While House didn't shove Wilson away or hit him, he didn't respond immediately, too shocked by the speed and unexpectedness of the action to do anything but stiffen in surprise. Once the initial shock faded, however, House had a decision to make. He could kiss Wilson back as he had fantasized about many times over the years, or he could push him away and hopefully salvage the status quo between them before things went any further. He didn't want his friendship with Wilson to end, but House wasn't certain which action would save it and which would destroy it.

He knew what felt right, however, logic aside. Instinct and desire overruled his intellect and he began to kiss back, relaxing in Wilson's arms. House parted his lips and teeth and allowed Wilson's tongue through. He couldn't get over how good a kisser Wilson was, nor resist shivering at the sound of the small, impassioned moan that left the other man once House had submitted.

House wrapped his arms around Wilson, his eyes fluttering shut. It was a kiss heavy in passion and desire, but what had originally been a forceful act was now gentler and tenderer. It was so much better than any of House's fantasies.

They parted for breath; Wilson's nervous brown eyes searched House's face for any indication as to what he was thinking. House allowed a smile to touch his mouth and eyes. He reached up and cupped Wilson's face with his hand and stroked his cheekbone with his thumb.

"Y-you're not angry," Wilson whispered in wonder. "Or disgusted."

Shaking his head, House answered, "I never would have kissed _Kyle Calloway_ back." He sobered. "How long?"

Wilson understood the question. He kept his arms wrapped around House. "For years. Maybe as far back as New Orleans. I just didn't want to accept it."

"When you thought you were dying," House concluded, "you had an excuse to change."

Wilson shrugged. "As insane as it sounds, dying meant that I was free to be whoever I _wanted_ to be, instead of who I was _expected_ to be. But now that it looks like I'm not going to die…" His voice trailed off and he sighed. "Remember on the bus, when I said that I didn't want to come back to Princeton?"

House nodded, remaining silent, waiting for him to continue.

"Well," Wilson said, "it wasn't only because I was afraid of what the scan might show. I also didn't want to come back to the life I've made for myself all these years. I didn't want to come back to the persona. I just wanted to remain feeling free to be…_me_. Now that I'm not dying anymore…I don't know who or what I'm supposed to be."

"Wilson," House told him, "you've been given a second chance on life. I think that deserves a fresh, new start being whoever the hell you _want_ to be. Fuck expectations. What do _you_ want to do with the next forty or so years of your life?"

A grin blossomed on Wilson's face and he wagged his eyebrows suggestively. "Well, for starters, I'd like to do a lot more of what we were just doing, and taking it from there."

House chuckled softly. "I'm down with that."

He felt Wilson's smile more than saw it as their mouths joined for another kiss.

_**~fin~**_


	2. Chapter 2 Letting Go

**Title: ****Cheater**

**Author: pgrabia**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D. and its characters do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes only and I'm not making any money from this.

**Genre: **Drama/Romance

**Characters/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson/ House/Wilson slash.

**Word Count: **~2100

**Spoilers/Warnings: **General spoilers for all seasons up to and including episode 8x20 "Post-Mortem". Basically PWP with a little bit of plot.

**Rating: R (M) **(to be safe)

**A/N: **How _I_ wish the series had ended: A re-working of the final scene in Episode 8x20 and AU from there. Thanks to Clinic-Duty community for the transcript of the final scene up to where my fic deviates from canon!

The first chapter, Cheater, right here. You might want to read it first if you haven't already.

Unbetaed, sorry.

**Chapter Two: Letting Go**

They were standing in the center of House's living room. Wilson's hands were on his head, fingers combing through House's thinning hair, massaging his scalp; his lips, tongue and teeth were ministering to his neck. The room was hot, Wilson was hot, and all House could think about was getting their clothes off as quickly as possible. To that end his hands left Wilson's ass and migrated forward and up to the fly of his best friend's jeans, ripping open the button with such urgency that it popped off and was heard hitting the hardwood floor and rolling away. He took a little more care lowering the zipper over Wilson's swollen member, earning a groan of appreciation when his hand cupped it and squeezed for a moment. House then used both hands to tug down on the waistband, lowering the pants past Wilson's hips. He then set to work on lowering the boxer shorts as well.

"Too many clothes!" House whispered into Wilson's ear and then gasped; the oncologist had just reciprocated with a grab at his bulging crotch through House's own denims.

Wilson chuckled lecherously at House's reaction, stopping his sucking on House's neck long enough to speak. "Hung like a jackass and just about as stubborn!"

"You mean a _stallion_," House argued, now pushing Wilson backward toward the rear of his apartment where the bedroom was. He wanted to slam Wilson up against the wall and fuck him senseless there but his leg wasn't feeling like it would cooperate with that so the bed it would have to be. "Don't believe me? You will when I slam up your ass until I reach your fucking tonsils. I'll do it again and again until you beg me to stop and then I'll do it agai—"

Wilson's mouth found his, silencing him. A long, talented tongue forced its way into House's mouth, tickling the top before molesting his tongue without mercy.

House groaned deep in his throat, his hands roaming all over Wilson's body, uncertain where to stop and rest. He wanted to squeeze the younger man's ass, cup his balls, run his fingers through thick brown hair, pull his hips against his own so he could grind their erections together. It was a kaleidoscope of incredible sensations and emotions and movements that House was being swept up into with abandon and he never wanted it to stop.

By this time Wilson had already lowered House's jeans and underwear to his ankles, so all he had to do was step out of them, which House did. Wilson yanked up on the hem of House's t-shirt and quickly removed it as well, throwing it to the floor. He reversed them so that it was he now that was guiding them toward the bedroom, pausing long enough to press House's back against the wall while he sucked hard on House's erect nipples.

There was something else that House wanted him to suck on more, and he told him so by thrusting his hips toward Wilson, brushing his cock against him. Again Wilson chuckled sexily.

"Patience," he told his older lover, "all in good time."

"Fuck time," House growled hungrily, "I want you _now_! Twenty. Fucking. _Years_!" He lifted Wilson's face with his hands and kissed him hard on the mouth, nipping his lip hard enough to draw blood. Wilson groaned as pleasure and pain became one, and took up leading them to the bed once more.

"This comes off now," House grunted as he divested Wilson of his golf shirt, throwing it to the floor. He half-expected Wilson to complain that it would get wrinkled but he was too far-gone to care at the moment. He wanted to get the show on the road as quickly as House did by the look and feel of it. They were both dripping with sweat, panting lightly for breath, their skins hot, tingling and extra-sensitive, members hard and aching for release.

They crossed the threshold into the bedroom where Wilson finally lost his bottoms before House spun them around and pushed him down onto the bed.

"Socks, too," House said. Wilson's shoes had been lost somewhere along the way and House slipped Wilson's socks off. He climbed onto the end of the bed and began to kiss each of Wilson's toes, stopping to suck on a couple along the way. This brought belly laughter from Wilson.

"Seriously? A foot fetish, House?" He playfully kicked at the diagnostician. "Quit it, that tickles!" He grabbed at House's arms, pulling him toward him. "Come up here."

House sighed, bidding silent farewell to Wilson's tootsies—at least for now—and allowed himself to be pulled onto the naked and beautiful body of his best friend. Of course he'd seen Wilson naked before, but never like this, never this close and for this reason. He wanted to kiss and lick every inch of that body, to worship it, but his growing need was pushing that to the side, for another time.

They kissed and suckled and wrestled until need became too much to bear any longer.

"Lube?" Wilson moaned as House chewed on his earlobe.

"Drawer," House stopped to say. Wilson reached with one hand to open the drawer in the bedside table; he quickly located the tube and pulled it out, forgetting to close the drawer when House possessed his mouth again.

"Have you ever done this before?" House asked him with surprising gentleness once he'd broken the kiss.

"Never…you know," Wilson replied almost sheepishly, staring up at him. "Just oral…a long time ago. You?"

House nodded but didn't elaborate. His last experience at anal sex had been a little over a year before, in prison, where it hadn't been consensual or pleasant; two bruisers had held him still while a third had had his way with him. House hadn't fought back as hard as some of their other victims, believing that extreme resistance would have only resulted in himself being the one who ended up in the infirmary for his efforts. Fortunately, he had previous experience that had been consensual and pleasurable to think back to, though that had been quite some time in the past, too.

"What do you want, Jimmy?" House murmured, kissing his nose. "Do you want to pitch or catch?"

"Seriously? Sports metaphors?" Wilson asked, smiling a little nervously.

"Look, it's fantastic either way," House told him, serious now, "but if you bottom the first few times may hurt. It gets better the more you do it…look, you fuck me now. I want your first time to be slow and good, and that takes more time than I think I have to spare before I fucking come all over the place."

"Okay," Wilson agreed, being careful not to look too relieved though House could see it in his eyes.

"I want you facing me, so I can see your face," House told him, earning a grin from Wilson, who wisely refrained from pointing out how romantic he sounded.

House led Wilson through the process of preparing him and other logistics and Wilson was a fast learner. A drawn-out groan left him as he slowly entered House for the first time. House winced slightly, earning immediate concern from his partner.

"I'm…I'm fine," he assured Wilson. "Keep going!"

Wilson leaned forward and kissed him gently before doing so, thrusting hesitantly at first but then with increasing speed and vigor with the encouraging words and sounds made by his lover. House reveled in feeling completely filled up by this man that he had loved for so long; he savored each kiss, each caress and ignored any discomfort he might be experiencing in the presence of the pleasure. He committed each second of their lovemaking to memory so should it never happen again he would have the memory of these moments of true happiness and desire to turn back to for comfort.

Wilson proved to be very sensitive to House's non-verbal encouragement and direction and it wasn't long before he'd adjusted the angle of his thrusts just so that he grazed over House's prostate with each one. He was succeeding at limiting the amount of contact he had with House's ruined thigh, which allowed his older lover to focus on pleasure instead of pain.

"Oh God, yessss…," House moaned loudly, both of his hands on Wilson's hips, unconsciously squeezing hard enough to bruise. He laid open- mouthed kisses and little bites along Wilson's sweaty shoulder and neck, enjoying the taste of him as if he were partaking of ambrosia. The scent of him, his musk and sweat and stale cologne was absolutely intoxicating; House had always enjoyed the smell of his friend but never so much as at that moment in the throes of passion.

Only a few more thrusts and House knew he would be finished; he sensed that Wilson, too, was approaching climax. It was with a particularly sexy groan from Wilson that House went over, soaring on the heights of one of the best orgasms he'd ever experienced. His climax triggered Wilson's mere moments later, and he cried out something that sounded like House's first name before collapsing onto him, no strength left in him to support his weight or move.

House slowly descended from the immediate high to feel Wilson's hot breaths against his neck. Sweat slicked their bodies, dampened the sheets, and made them both shiver in the cool room. Wilson half-rolled off of House, keeping one arm and leg wrapped around him as if ensuring that he wouldn't up and run away, not that that was possible at that point. He reached his left hand down and pulled the comforter, which had been kicked to the end of the bed, up and over them. House kept Wilson close in his arms, kissing his sweat-soaked hair and caressing his creamy skin.

"You catch on…quick," House said as he panted, his heart still racing.

"I was always…a high achiever," Wilson agreed, smiling against House's neck before kissing it. "You did pretty…good yourself…for an…old fart."

"And without…a little blue…pill," House agreed, smirking. He kissed Wilson again and squeezed him closer if that was even possible. "Bonnie was …right about you."

"What was that about…Bonnie?" Wilson asked, lifting himself up enough to look House in the face.

"She once told me that you were a sex god," House told him, his breathing evening out. "She didn't say it in those terms but the message was the same."

"Was this while she and I were married or after the divorce?"

"A few years after," House told him. "After Julie, even."

"Why were you talking to my ex-wife about our sex life?" Wilson looked confused by the concept of his best friend and ex-wife talking about such intimate matters. "Or about anything, for that matter. You hate each other."

"It's a long, boring story that really doesn't matter," House assured him, brushing a stray lock of Wilson's hair into place. It was such a simple yet intimate gesture that brought a smile to Wilson's lips. "The point is, she was right."

Wilson relaxed back down onto the pillow, reaching to lovingly brush House's scruffy cheek with his hand. "I told you how long I've known I was in love with you. How long have you known you wanted me?"

House noticed how Wilson didn't use the term 'in love' when it came to his feelings for the younger man. It was a sign of insecurity about what House's real intentions were; he was determined not to assume anything. House didn't like talking about feelings or using the four-letter 'L' word like it had no real specialness or meaning at all, but he didn't want his lover to be confused about his feelings for him.

House shifted his body so that he was lying on his left side facing Wilson. He moved in and kissed him tenderly, lingering for a while before meeting his gaze. It was time to let down his guard and become a little vulnerable, as much as he disliked it.

"Listen closely because you may not hear this again for a long time, if ever. I've loved you since the day I met you, Wilson," he murmured carefully, earning a lasting smile from his best friend. "I fell _in_ love with you shortly after the infarction, after Stacy had been gone for a few months. I _acknowledged_ it for the first time while I was at Mayfield."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" Wilson asked, amazed both by House's confession and by how easy it had been to get it. "It wasn't because you were afraid of what others might think about you if it got out that you had gay feelings for me because you've never given a damn about what others think about you."

"True," House agreed, "but I do care about what _you_ think about me. I didn't know how you felt, either. I didn't want to risk losing my friendship with you; it was—is—too important to me. And I did give you more than a few hints, you know."

"I always thought you were kidding," Wilson told him, "and then there was your pursuit of Cuddy…."

A sigh left House at the mention of her name. Some wounds would never heal completely and that was something he'd had to come to terms with over his year in prison and the months after he'd been released on conditional parole.

"Sorry," Wilson apologized, "Change of topic."

"No," House countered, shaking his head. "You're right. There was always sexual chemistry between us but I only actively pursued her because I didn't think I could ever have you as my lover; she was available, at least until she took up with Lucas, and you kept pushing me at her. It made sense, in a way, but she and I should have known that I could never be the kind of man she wanted and needed, and I could never love her like I do you."

"You keep saying it," Wilson pointed out, smiling smugly. "Shortly after you destroyed Cuddy's house and ran away she told me that you only told her once that you loved her, and then only because she had drawn it out of you. Yet you keep saying it to and about me."

House lifted one of Wilson's hands to his lips. "It's easier to say when I actually mean it."

"You didn't love Cuddy?"

"Yes and no," House replied. "Yes, I loved her but I was never in love with her. Enough discussion about Cuddy. You have a second lease on life…any ideas on what you want to do with it?"

"Aside from spending it with you, like this?" Wilson clarified. "Yeah…yeah. I want to let go and do all of those things I've put off or considered frivolous or selfish over the years. I want to do the things on my bucket list without having to kick the bucket. I want to travel the country—no, the world. I need a sabbatical from medicine, and if I ever choose to come back…no more oncology. I'm done. I don't know what else I would specialize in…hematology? Hell, maybe I'll become a pain management specialist and come up with a way of easing some of your suffering. Maybe I'll just set up a shingle somewhere and practice general medicine. Maybe I'll teach. One thing I am certain of is that I want to do all of this with you. What do you say to a super-amazing, epic road trip of all time, you and me?"

House found himself grinning at the enthusiasm and hope he heard in Wilson's voice and saw illuminating his face.

"When you put it like that, how could I refuse?" House told him, hugging him close. For the first time in years—hell, in decades—House felt happy and he would do whatever it took to make it last and to share it with the one person who was the source.

"What about…us?" House asked him almost shyly. "This. Are we-Is this—going to be our dirty little secret?"

Wilson lifted His face to kiss House sweetly before giving him a devilish smile. "Hell, no! This becomes front-page news from now on. No more feeling ashamed of being who I am or for loving you. If you're game, that is."

"Oh, I'm game, alright, but it can wait 'til later" House announced, his hands migrating toward more sensitive areas of Wilson's body. "I've got something much more important to do, first." He moved his face toward Wilson's and kissed him with a lot of tongue.

"Mm," Wilson hummed in response, pulling House on top of him. "Mm-hmmmm."

House woke up to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom next door to his bedroom. He rubbed his face with his hand a couple of times before sitting up. A tad disappointed that Wilson hadn't wakened him so they could shower together, he decided he would join him anyway—that is, if he could get his ass out of bed before Wilson finished.

Getting up after hours of dormancy was a painful and difficult process of stretches and range of motion exercises before House could actually get to his feet. Fortunately, Wilson seemed to be taking a more languorous shower this morning so House made it to the bathroom before the other man turned off the water. Thankfully the door was unlocked; House crept into the bathroom, still naked from their lovemaking the night before. He pulled back the shower curtain.

Wilson shrieked at the unexpected intrusion, jumping and nearly slipping in the tub before grabbing the handrail House had installed after the infarction. Covered in soap and glaring at House, he was absolutely adorable (not that that word had even occurred to House).

House set his cane down next to the tub, climbed in, and closed the curtain again.

Wilson wagged a bar of soap at him. "You scared the shit out of me. It was like something out of Psycho!"

"Told you watching Hitchcock would be the end of you someday," House chirped, surprisingly awake for how early it was. "Just wanted to soap you down but you beat me to it. Oh well, guess I get to scrub you and rinse you off, then you can wash me."

"Oh really?" Wilson replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, really," House told him, smiling lasciviously. "Or, I can fuck you against the wall right here. Moist heat relaxes and loosens everything up." He wrapped an arm around Wilson's waist and pulled him until their bodies touched. Wilson chuckled before initiating a very hot and steamy kiss, his fingers lightly tracing patterns up and down House's flanks, eliciting goosebumps.

They played for a little while in the shower, though actual intercourse was postponed for later (the risk of House slipping and falling in the tub with his bad leg being too great). Wilson did indeed clean every inch of House, taking longer in the more erotic zones before going down on him. It was perhaps one of the best blowjobs House had had in a long time; Wilson had a very talented and knowledgeable mouth.

They rinsed off and got out of the shower, toweling each other off. House suggested they return to bed so he could return the favor, but Wilson was insistent that they didn't have enough time before work and that he would gladly take a raincheck. House pouted for a while just to make a point despite the fact he knew Wilson was right. House dressed in fresh clothing; Wilson put back on his casual wear from the night before.

"How about we do drive-thru for breakfast?" he suggested. "That way we'll have time to swing around the loft and I can change for work?"

Drive-thru sounded good to House, who agreed. He rode in to work with Wilson since he had every intention of dragging Wilson back to his place after work in order to fill that raincheck. It was in the car between Wilson's loft and the hospital that they talked about how they were going to announce their relationship at work and some of the rules Wilson wanted in place for behavior between them while at the hospital.

"The direct approach is best," House offered from the passenger's seat. "We walk into the hospital, stop at the desk and I grab your ass. Then we kiss with lots of tongue—"

"Uh," Wilson interrupted, "I was thinking we would do it with a little more class."

"My way's classy," House defended but was failing to convince his friend. "Fine. What boring way have you got in mind?"

Wilson paused until they stopped for a red light before taking his eyes off the road to look at House. "Why don't we just walk in holding hands—"

House made a gagging sound.

"—And go to Foreman's office, Wilson continued, apparently unaffected by House's interruption. "We tell him right away that we are in a relationship and that we both are wanting to take a leave of absence just as soon as the conditions on your parole are over and we can make arrangements for you to be able to leave the state legally—"

"Seriously," House interjected, rolling his eyes, "can you make it any more gay? And we don't have to wait. My parole officer hasn't demanded to see me in months. Public service is such hard work. My way has more pizzazz, more 'Out and Proud' than yours does."

"House, we're two men having sex with each other. It doesn't get much gayer than that. Besides," Wilson said with a nod, turning his attention back to his driving when the light turned green, "you may be right, but your way is entirely inappropriate for a hospital setting."

Staring blankly at him House said, "And your point is? Come on, we have to do _something_ over the top or nobody will believe it."

"Nobody will believe it if we _do_ go over the top," Wilson insisted. "Everybody is used to you being outrageous, House. It has an opposite effect on the staff now. By being subtle but showing some tasteful signs of public affection and being honest when questions are asked, people will be more willing to believe it. Trust me on this."

House crossed his arms in front of him stubbornly. "Fine, we'll try it your way—for a while. If nobody buys it, we do things my way. And I'm still going to grab your ass."

Wilson sighed, long-suffering. "Of course. We have to have some rules, some boundaries, when it comes to PDA at work."

"Make all the rules you want, Wilson," House told him, smirking. "Rules are made to be broken."

"I'm serious about this," Wilson insisted more fervently. "I'm not ashamed of our relationship, House, I'm really not, but there are some things that are better left for when we're alone. Grabbing my ass or my crotch at work is out."

"Not even at lunch in your office?" House asked, now appearing disappointed. "Or in the janitor's closet during coffee break?"

"As long as we're alone, it's fine by me," Wilson assured him, "but not in public. And I do actually have patients and meetings and paperwork to do so there won't be more 'coffee breaks' than we normally take. When we're on duty we behave as colleagues with some professional decorum, but what we do privately is nobody else's business. I still need to command some respect from my colleagues and staff, House, even if you don't give a damn about that sort of thing—and don't give me that look. I _am_ serious about being less about appearances and more about being the real me, but this is new to me. Baby-steps, House."

House sighed heavily, staring out the windshield. A moment or two later he nodded once, which Wilson caught out of the corner of his eye.

"Baby-steps, Wilson." House agreed.

Before leaving House's apartment that morning they had thought of taking House's disabled placard out of his car. After parking in House's disabled space, Wilson now put it up on the rear-view mirror of his Taurus. As House came around the car, Wilson grasped his free left hand with his own right, and carried his briefcase in his left. House looked at their hands for a moment, a hint of a smile playing around wit the corners of his eyes and mouth.

"Ready?" Wilson asked him as they walked together like that toward the parkade elevator.

House gave his hand a squeeze. "More than," he replied.

They caught the next elevator car up. Two other people were on it as well. If they noticed the handholding, they didn't show it. House was dubious this would work, being subtle, but he was willing to try if it was that important to Wilson. The elevator emptied of its occupants at the Lobby. Wilson led the way off, his hand still firmly holding House's. They walked up to the front desk to sign in and receive any messages they might have. One of the reception nurses gave them a funny look as she handed over the message papers but said nothing. Wilson acted as if nothing at all was different, thanking her in his sickeningly charming way. House took his with a grunt.

After looking through his messages and signing a couple of orders pending, Wilson leaned over and gave House a peck on the cheek. House looked for any reactions. Nurse Jeffrey had been talking with the reception nurse but had stopped and stared when he noticed the simple, chaste kiss. A couple of doctors walking past looked away from them quickly but whispered between them while stealing short glances in Wilson's and his direction.

"We should go see Foreman right away," Wilson told him, acting as if he hadn't just been seen kissing his best friend's cheek. House had to press his lips together to keep from smiling.

"Good idea," House told him, taking Wilson's hand again. They walked toward the clinic. A few eyes from staffers were on them as they proceeded, but when House caught them staring they all quickly looked away and went back to what they were doing. Perhaps Wilson was right after all.

House didn't bother checking in with the P.A. or knocking when he led the way into Foreman's office. The Dean of Medicine was on his phone and raised a hand to prevent either of them from speaking. House and Wilson simply stood in front of his desk, waiting, with their hands joined. House noted that Foreman's eyes had zeroed in right away on their hands and were glued to them as he finished his phone call and hung up.

Foreman, seated behind his desk, crossed his arms in front of his chest and smirked at them. "So, what?" he asked. "Are we going to break out in a round of Kumbiyah and roast some marshmallows now?"

Before House could retort Wilson beat him to it.

"House and I are in a romantic relationship," he announced as if he were telling Foreman that the cafeteria was serving steak as it's special _du jour_. "It just happened and we felt we should let you know before you found out over the grapevine."

Foreman stared at the chief oncologist, somewhat dumbstruck. That lasted all of two seconds, though, before he smirked in disbelief and shook his head.

"Look, I don't have time for whatever con it is you two are pulling," the Dean told them, shuffling through a stack of papers on his desk. "So you might as well just come out with it and save us all a lot of time."

"It's not a con," Wilson insisted firmly. "There should be no problem with our working here together at Plainsboro since neither of us is in a supervisory position over the other but if you think it prudent that we report to HR then we will."

Foreman's smirk slowly faded. "But neither of you is gay."

"Gay is as gay does," House piped up in his best Forest Gump impersonation, which really wasn't very good. "Last night Wilson topped but tonight—"

"House!" Wilson cut him off, glaring.

House glared back, "Your way isn't working." He pulled Wilson suddenly into a kiss. Wilson surrendered to it. House lingered a moment before letting go of him and pulling back. He then regarded Foreman. "Any questions?"

Foreman simply gawked, and it was apparent that he didn't want to believe it but simply could help it. He sighed and then shrugged. "Okay. Fine. If this is a prank it probably won't last more that a few days, a week tops, and if it isn't then…congratulations?"

House gave Wilson a smug smirk; Wilson rolled his eyes.

"Thank you," Wilson replied. "Now on to other business. Did you happen to view the films I left with your assistant?"

A smile broke out on Foreman's face and he nodded. "I almost forgot. This is great news! Full remission. Not everybody is so lucky."

Nodding and sighing, Wilson went on, "It's more than I could have hoped for. Of course, there's always a chance that the cancer might come back, but I'll deal with that if or when it happens. This entire experience got me thinking about my life and the direction it was going. I've decided that I need—want—to change course. To start, I'm going to apply with HR for a sabbatical leave—both House and I are. I'm…burnt out and need some time to see if I can re-ignite my interest in medicine and I want House there with me."

"'Cuz we're doing each other," House interjected, earning another sigh and eye roll from Wilson. House loved provoking that reaction; Wilson looked so cute when he did that (not that House would ever use the term _cute_).

"House is still on restricted parole for six months," Foreman reminded them.

"Tell us something we don't know," House replied. "We won't be taking the sabbatical immediately; Wilson has patients he wants to finish up with before he hands their cases over to other doctors and to give you time to find and hire his temporary replacement."

"I want to recommend Brown," Wilson added. "I think he'd be good at the job and since he's already on staff I have plenty of time to train him in the position before I leave. It will also give me time for some preventative treatment, to make certain all of the cancer is gone. Once House's sentence is completed we'll be leaving Princeton and probably won't be back for more than a day or two here or there until the sabbatical is up."

"What about your department?" Foreman asked, turning his attention to House.

"I want Chase as my replacement," was the simple reply.

"Chase?" Foreman echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"He's ready," House asserted. "I won't have to train him in the way the department works because he knows it as well as I do. That is, if he hasn't already settled into a permanent position by that time. I'll leave procurement up to you."

Foreman stared at them both for a moment in silence before nodding and sighing. "Okay. Wilson, if you really feel this is something you have to do, then we'll make it happen. Why you think taking House along will be therapeutic is beyond me but it's your life."

"It's because I'm a stud in the sack," House retorted, earning another Wilson sigh.

"It's true," Wilson admitted, straight-faced, much to House's surprise and earning an amused smile from him. "We'll work out the details as they arise. Thank you, Foreman."

They left Foreman's office still holding hands and heading for the elevator.


	3. Chapter 3 Happy Oblivion

**Title: ****Cheater (3/4)**

**Author: pgrabia**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D. and its characters do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes only and I'm not making any money from this.

**Genre: **Drama/Romance

**Characters/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson/ House/Wilson slash.

**Word Count: **~4800

**Spoilers/Warnings: **General spoilers for all seasons up to and including episode 8x22 "Everybody Dies".

**Rating: R (M) **(to be safe)

**A/N: **How _I_ wish the series had ended: A re-working of the final scene in Episode 8x20 and AU from there. Thanks again to Clinic_Duty community for the transcripts of episode 8x22 "Everybody Dies". You will notice that the dialogue is some portions of this fic are taken directly from that and some are altered to fit my plot. No plagiarism intended!

You may want to read Chapter One and Chapter Two before you read this if you haven't already.

Unbetaed, sorry.

**Chapter Three: Happy Oblivion**

Taub is the first member of House's team to comment on the fact that his boss and his boss's best friend are holding hands.

"I held hands with my best friend too—when I was six."

"Children," House addressed them, "Mommy and Daddy want you to know that we're a real couple now so we can all be a big dysfunctional family."

Park, sitting across the conference table from Taub, looked confused. "Wait a minute—you two are sleeping together?"

"We prefer to call it nookie," House returned, earning an eye roll from Wilson, a look of suspicion from both Taub and Park, and an uncertain smile from Adams.

"Seriously?" Adams asked. "You two are romantically involved?"

"I don't believe it," Taub interjected. "This is some practical joke the two of you are pulling. Neither of you is gay."

"They could be bisexual," Adams argued.

Wilson, blushing slightly at the attention, decided to settle the issue here as he had with Foreman.

"We are a romantic couple," Wilson stated. "We've both known for years that we loved each other but we were too stubborn to admit to it and do something about it until just recently. I've never allowed myself to accept the fact that I am attracted to members of the same sex as well as to women until now. We decided not to make a big scene but rather to be discreet about it."

"Actually, I wanted to dry-hump Wilson in the lobby," House objected, "but Mr. Decorum decided that would be inappropriate. If you want, I can grab his junk to prove it to you."

"House!" Wilson said, glaring at him. Softly he added, "What did we talk about in the car on the way here?"

"Look at them," House replied, nodding at his team. "They don't believe us doing things your way. If we do it my way—"

"We are not going to do it your way!" Wilson insisted.

Adams looked to Taub and Park, saying aloud what all three of them we thinking. "Well, they squabble like an old married couple."

"Whatever," Taub said, sighing in exasperation. "Fine. You and Wilson are sleeping together. Mazel tov. Now can we get to work?"

"What work?" Park asked. "We haven't got a case because House nixed the potential patients we found yesterday."

"Which means your assignment today is to find me a case worthy of my attention," House told them. "Off you go. Don't come back empty-handed."

His team looked amongst themselves questioningly before getting up from the table and marching out of the DDx room in search of work. Wilson turned to House and kissed him chastely on the lips, an act that House's team saw as they filed out.

"I have a full day, so I'll be going now," Wilson told him. "Lunch at twelve?"

House nodded. "I guess I have nothing better to do than work off some clinic hours." He grumbled. "They better find me a case quick. A day of whining patients and runny noses is a waste of my genius."

Wilson smirked, "Have fun in the clinic, genius." He strode out of the room heading for his own office next door. House watched his ass as he departed, and not for the first time—only now, he could be obvious about it and that fact alone made the idea of clinic duty that much more tolerable.

Nurse Brenda Previn looked surprised to see House entering the clinic without being threatened to be there. House stopped at the reception desk where she stood and knocked on it once.

"Alright, let's get this over with," he told her. "Which idiot with a cold in which torture chamber."

She smirked, picking up a file in front of her and handing it to him. "Mr. Oliver Pratt, exam room three."

House limped closer to the waiting room and leaned on his cane. "Pratt, follow me and be quick about it." With that he limped his way down the short corridor to exam room three and sat down on the steel stool there in.

A middle-aged man in a worn and dirty suit followed him into the room and took a seat on the exam bed. House looked him over once with a keen eye, noting details about the patient that spoke to him of who the man was and what might be his complaint. A large bruise on his cheekbone stood out like a neon sign. He popped a Vicodin before pocketing the vial and perusing the file briefly.

"Mr. Pratt," House addressed him, "what's your complaint?"

"I was in a car accident last month," Oliver Pratt told him.

House sighed silently, thinking that this was going to be a long two hours. "I won a swimming trophy in high school. Your turn."

Oliver must have decided that he didn't want to play the 'State Useless Information about Yourself' game because he responded saying, "I-I ran out of pain medication. I got an orbital fracture. It's just taking ages to heal."

_Drug-seeking_, House thought to himself. _Oxy-addict?_

House set the patient file down on a counter. "Take off your shirt," he instructed.

Oliver looked at him, puzzled. "My eye's up here," he insisted, pointing at it.

House fought the urge to make a smart-aleck remark, choosing to save that for later. For now, he would educate. "Orbital fracture means your face went into the windshield, which means your chest went into the steering wheel. Painkillers can suppress heart rate, so unless you want me to kill you, take off your shirt, let me do a heart exam."

Oliver began to undo the buttons on his shirt. House rose from the stool and turned to face away from him.

"I also wanted to see the ring of burns around your collarbone," House told him knowingly. He turned back to face Oliver, observing the burns exactly where he said they would be. Oliver looked dumbfounded.

"How'd you know?"

_Because I've got two good eyes and a brain,_ House said under his breath. Aloud: "The codeine allergy you told the nurse about. That's shorthand for 'give me the strong stuff,' which matches your seen-better-days-because-my-life-fell-apart suit. The two old burns on your fingers mean you tend to nod off with a cigarette in your hand. No reason you shouldn't do that with one in your mouth. May all your doctors be stupid."

At this, Oliver grabbed for his tie and jacket. House's eye caught a dark spot on Oliver's abdomen.

"Hold on a second," he told the patient to stay him, approaching to have a better look at his belly. "That bruising around your belly button. Well, you might get some fun drugs out of this after all."

Oliver looked more puzzled than worried, though House figured he should be concerned if this was what he thought it was. At least his team now had a case and he had an excuse to leave the clinic.

"I'm going to admit you to the hospital for some tests and observation. That bruising on your abdomen could be an indicator of a more serious injury internally," House told his quizzical patient. He picked up the file again and began to list the tests and procedures he wanted done to Oliver, ignoring the fact that Oliver now looked frightened. This, House mused, could turn out to be very interesting.

A couple of hours and several tests later, House was back in the DDx room after assembling his team from around the hospital, handing out copies of Oliver's file and test results to each doctor present.

"Cullen's sign," House told them. "But the ultrasound showed air as well as blood. Now, I know what you're thinking. Hemorrhagic pancreatitis. But I also know what I'm thinking. Doesn't explain the pneumoperitoneum."

"You took a new case?" Adams asked.

Park was equally surprised, having expected that House would at least wait until after the weekend to agree to take on a new patient. They had test results in front of them and as far as she knew, nobody on House's team had even known about the patient before now, much less run tests on him.

"You ran tests yourself?" Park clarified, surprised. House rarely ever ran diagnostic tests on his patients himself, leaving the grunt work to his minions.

House chose to ignore the unspoken jab at his expense. "I saw the chance to help someone in need," he responded with mock-sobriety, "and I instinctively — Oh, no, wait, that was someone else's instinct."

The team members sifted through the data. It seemed odd to House to be looking at them and not see Chase seated in his normal spot around the table; it would take getting used to.

Adams looked up from her copy of Oliver's chart. "Air in his abdomen could mean Irritable Bowel."

"But IBD doesn't explain the presence of blood, too," Taub pointed out.

"There's a notation in his file that he was recently in a car accident which resulted in a fracture of his right orbital," Park spoke up, looking to House.

House nodded. She was on her way to a good observation; he wanted her to come to it without spoon-feeding it to her. "Go on," House prodded.

Park frowned as she considered the information at hand. "To break his orbital, he had to hit the windshield of his car with his face. In the process his chest and perhaps his upper abdomen would have hit the steering wheel. He could have suffered a tiny perforation of his Aorta, lungs, liver, or spleen due to blunt force trauma which wasn't detected at the time of the accident but may have caused the slow accumulation of air and blood in the peritoneal cavity."

House reached down to the pile of films on the table and took them to a light box to view.

"Show me a perforation," he told them.

"I don't see one," Adams said. Park rose from her seat and walked over to the light box to get a better look.

"If it's tiny and there's enough clouding thanks to the blood it might not be visible on CT but visible with laparoscopy," she insisted in defense of her suggestion.

"There would have been bruising to indicate that he suffered the kind of trauma you describe," Taub told her. "The attending in the ER he was taken to didn't chart seeing any kind of bruising or marking other than a second degree bruise from his seat belt. He likely struck his face on the steering wheel, breaking his orbital. A perforated gastric ulcer fits better. He looks like he hasn't eaten properly, too stoned to care. Could also be due to advanced anorexia. An upper GI endoscopy would be less invasive and would confirm or rule out either."

"But what about the air bag?" Adams argued, frowning.

"The guy is a down-on-his-luck smack-junkie," Taub returned, shaking his head. "If he even owns his own car it could be an old beater without an air bag, or possessing a defective air bag, for that matter."

House nodded in agreement. "Taub, Park, go scope him. Adams, go do my clinic hours."

Taub and Park left the DDx room first. Adams cast House a dirty look as she sulked and took her time leaving for the clinic. House took the films off the light box and turned it off. It was looking more and more like this case was going to be less interesting than he thought. He would need something else to keep him occupied, and since it was nearly noon he made his way next door to his favorite diversion.

~h/w~

"Best. Lunch. Ever," House said sleepily from where he sat on the sofa in Wilson's office.

Wilson sat on his pant-less lap, equally pant-less, his body like that of a rag doll, his forehead resting against House's clavicle and his arms draped around House's neck. To save time for more important things neither of them had bothered removing their shirts although House had divested Wilson of his ugly brown tie and undid a couple of buttons on his shirt so that he could access Wilson's neck with his mouth.

"I'm not certain semen has all the macro- and micronutrients a person needs," Wilson replied before placing a kiss where House's neck and shoulder met.

"Protein, Wilson," House replied with a chuckle.

"Ah, yes, of course," Wilson conceded, lifting his head to look House in the eye. "So that kinda makes you a cannibal, doesn't it?"

"Obviously you never found all the shrunken heads I've got hidden in my bedroom closet," House retorted, smiling.

"Naw, I was too busy looking for hidden Vicodin the last time I went on a search of your apartment."

"A lot of good that did," House told him. "You suck at searches."

"I just don't have a diabolical, devious mind like yours, I guess."

"Damn straight."

A pager went off.

"That's mine," House announced. Wilson found the strength to half-roll, half-climb off of him and grab House's pants off of the floor, handing them to their owner. House located his pager and checked the message.

"Fantastic," he said in disgust, sighing. "My patient has a perforated stomach ulcer. Boring. He's being prepped for surgery. So much for my case giving me an excuse to avoid the clinic. Foreman will catch on soon that I've got Adams down there working it for me."

"How dare your patient have a dangerous but boring ailment," Wilson said wryly, retrieving his own pants and pulling them on. "You keep ditching clinic and he'll find something worse for you to do."

"What could be worse?" House handed Wilson his tie.

"Cleaning bedpans suddenly comes to mind," Wilson replied, buttoning his shirt collar and wrapping his tie around his neck.

House made a face in disgust at the mental picture that flashed across his mind. "That's nurse-work. I'll go on strike."

Wilson stood up, finishing tying his tie. He walked up to House and pecked him on the lips. "Doctors don't go on strike."

"Fine," House said, wrapping his arms around Wilson's waist and pulling him closer, "then I'll picket the hospital."

"Yeah," Wilson agreed sarcastically, "that'll work." He leaned in and kissed House languorously; House kissed back just as tenderly.

Wilson was the one who broke the lip lock and sighed. "I have a patient appointment in about five minutes which gives me barely enough time to pull myself together, air the smell of sex out of my office, and go to the bathroom."

House placed small kisses along Wilson's jawline. "Mm…cancel it. In fact, cancel…the rest of your day. We'll leave early…and spend the rest of the day in bed."

Wilson gently pushed House away, shaking his head.

"You're no fun," House pouted. "Fine. It's just about time for my soap opera anyway. I'll grab a bag of chips on my way to Coma Guy's room."

"Now there is a nutritious meal," Wilson said, smiling as he went to his balcony door and opened it to allow fresh air into the office.

"Carbs to go with that protein," House agreed as he headed for the door to leave. "I'll see you at five on the nose. No late night paperwork sessions tonight."

"Fine," Wilson concurred.

"Later, Wilson."

"Later, House."

~h/w~

House hurried into Oliver's room; the alarm on his vitals monitor had gone off, indicating a problem, but there shouldn't have been a problem because the laparotomy had been completed with no complications and Oliver should have been resting quietly. His O2 sats were bottoming out fast.

Already in the room were his three minions, hard at work trying to establish what was wrong in order to fix it and stabilize the patient.

"Gotta be a clot in his lungs," Adams said, "We need to get him to an O.R.!"

"No time. His O2 stats are falling. We have to suck it out here. Bedside embolectomy." Park argued.

Adams shook her head emphatically. "Float a catheter through his heart and his oxygenation will get even worse. He'll die before we can finish the procedure!"

While two of his three fellows argued over what to do, House had a really good idea what was wrong with Oliver and wanted to test his theory. He went to the medication cart and searched for the pre-loaded syringe he wanted.

"House, we need a call here!" Taub told him in frustration.

House ignored him. Finding the pre-loaded syringe he wanted, House spun around and pushed the injection into Oliver's IV line. Nothing happened immediately.

Adams turned on him. "What are you doing? What did you give him?"

House remained calm, counting backwards softly. "Five… four… three… two…"

Before he could count to zero Oliver was suddenly conscious, sitting up and flailing while yelling incoherently. It took all three Fellows to get him under control and restrained. They looked to House in bewilderment.

House sighed silently. It was a positive test result if ever he saw one. "Naloxone," he explained, answering Adams's question. "We should've got suspicious when his visiting cousin signed in as 'Mr. Tar H. Horse.' Heroin caused the respiratory distress. The naloxone turned off the receptors, caused your distress."

Oliver Pratt was far from impressed by this. "I'm not gonna stop doing drugs!" he shouted on the top of his lungs. "It's reality that sucks!"

House turned around and walked out of his room, leaving the raving junkie to his staff to deal with. Reality did, indeed, suck. Usually. But for right now, life wasn't as sucky as it usually was for House. He knew it was because of Wilson. Not only was his cancer gone but Wilson was now his in every way that he had ever wanted. But what if Wilson's cancer hadn't been wiped out? Would he still be as contented as he was? What if Wilson hadn't shared feelings for House? Without that happiness, wouldn't House still be miserable.

It was like nothing had changed since his disaster of a relationship with Cuddy. He still hadn't found happiness in life that wasn't tied to his relationship with another person. He'd only switched from Cuddy to Wilson. If the cancer reoccurred, and Wilson died, his source of happiness would be gone as well. House wasn't even certain he'd want to continue living if Wilson died. Nolan had once told him that true happiness came from within, not from without; if that were the case, he still hadn't found a form of that elusive state of being that was independent of his circumstances or companionship.

He told himself to stop overthinking it; happy was happy, case closed. Nolan was a quack. Who the hell cared where happiness came from so long as one had it? He wasn't naïve enough to believe that it would last forever, but as long as he had it he planned on enjoying it.

The rest of his afternoon one worry kept nagging at him regardless of how many times he reminded himself to stop thinking about it: what if he somehow managed to screw up his relationship with Wilson as badly as he had with Cuddy and he ended up alone regardless of whether or not Wilson died? At least after Cuddy had dumped him Wilson had been there as support. If he fucked things up with Wilson, who would be there to support him after that? The answer was no one. Which meant he couldn't fuck this up—but he always fucked up with the good things in his life—Stacy and Cuddy were just two of many examples of his anti-Midas touch. House began to wonder if it wasn't a huge mistake becoming romantically involved with his best and only real friend.

At five he picked up Wilson as planned and this time they went to Wilson's loft for the evening. Wilson cooked a delicious dinner but House hadn't been able to enjoy it because he was so preoccupied. They had had sex—twice—but even that couldn't dispel House's somber mood.

"House, what's wrong?" Wilson asked him in the darkness of his bedroom. They were wrapped around each other post-coitus both still awake. House had been very quiet all evening and it was possible, he supposed, that Wilson had sensed the tension in his body as he held him.

House didn't want to talk about it. He wished he could stop thinking about it altogether, because it was too late to go back to being 'just best friends'. He couldn't even if he wanted to, which he didn't.

"Nothing," he replied, his tone of voice betraying him as a liar. "I'm just tired. Time for sleep."

"Is it your leg?" Wilson inquired, raising himself up on his elbow to look down at him. "I saw you pop two Vicodin at dinner and then another two before we had sex."

House shook his head. He reached up to caress Wilson's cheek with the back of his hand. "My leg's fine. I'm fine. Quit worrying, quit hogging the blankets, and go to sleep, okay? It's late."

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" Wilson pressed gently. "Even more than ever, we need to be open and honest with each other if what we have is going to last."

House took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was silent for a few moments, organizing his troubled thoughts. "You know my patient I told you about? The heroin-addict with the perforated gastric ulcer who lost everything because of his addiction?"

Wilson nodded, House seeing the profile of his head bobbing against the dim light of the streetlamps through the bedroom window.

"Yes. What about him?"

"He went into respiratory distress due to his phony-cousin-slash-dealer delivering heroin to him while he was still coming off the anesthetic from his surgery," House told him. "I gave him naloxone and he freaked out, screaming that he wouldn't stop using because reality sucks."

"Go on," Wilson encouraged, listening with interest.

"I went to see him later, after he'd calmed down," House told him. "I never visit my patients for non-diagnostic reasons, but for some reason there was something about him…"

_House walked into Oliver's room and sat down on a chair next to his bed, staring at him until Oliver woke up and gave him his attention._

"_Feeling better?" House asked him quietly, leaning forward on his cane._

"_I'm not gonna stop doing drugs," Oliver told him flatly._

"_You were a stockbroker," House said, as if that meant anything. To most people it did. "Son of a stockbroker. Married, children."_

"_I was miserable," Oliver insisted with a little more feeling. _

_House knew misery, understood it. This man before him had had what most people would consider a charmed life and yet with all of that going for him none of it had brought him contentment or joy. Just like him, some might say, at least before the infarction had taken place. House knew that there was more to it than that, things in his life growing up that he wished he could forget. He wondered what secrets were hidden in Oliver's past and if they were at all relevant._

"_Well, you say you were miserable because you need to rationalize screwing it up," House told him, but he might as well have been saying to himself. So many rationalizations…_

"_Except I didn't," Oliver argued. "I mean, I-I did. But I'm not miserable. Not anymore."_

_House looked at him in fascination; Oliver now had his undivided attention._

"_I had a ski injury and painkillers weren't enough," he continued, "and a friend of mine gave me some heroin. The second it entered my veins, it was like…God had taken over my body. It was like there was no more pain or unhappiness in my life or anybody else's."_

_House frowned. "But then you lost everything."_

_Oliver shrugged. "Everything wasn't enough. Because it's reality that sucks..."_

"House, you don't actually believe that your life would be better or happier if only you had a stronger drug than Vicodin to be addicted to," Wilson asked incredulously.

"He's happy," was the simple answer.

Wilson exhaled sharply. "He's brain damaged! He doesn't know what true happiness is because he's been anesthetizing himself. I know you know that's true."

House didn't answer, so Wilson went on.

"He's living an existence based on a lie. Just because he's too drugged and messed up to know that his life sucks even more than before doesn't mean he's any better off. Take away the drug, he's still miserable."

House nodded. "I know," he admitted softly, glad that Wilson couldn't see him very well to notice the moisture in his eyes. "That's the point."

"I don't understand."

House sighed, rubbed his face with a hand. He wanted to let it go, to shut down but for some reason he didn't. "I'm contented and even happy right now, because I have you. That's the only reason. Nothing else brings me happiness. I can't find it in myself, I have to have an outside source. But I fuck every good thing up eventually. I did with Stacy, and with Cuddy. Without them, I was miserable. Vicodin helped, but I still wasn't happy. When I thought you were going to die, I couldn't think of a reason to keep living after you were gone."

"House—" Wilson tried to interrupt but House wouldn't let him.

"No, let me finish. At my core I am a miserable person. Everything is good, for now, but what if I do something to fuck up our relationship? What happens then? What if I drive you away like I did them? I'll be miserable again. The puzzles, the medicine, Vicodin, booze, none of it could replace you in my life. If your cancer comes back and you end up dying, I'll be back to wanting to join you."

"First of all," Wilson said, "I seriously doubt that there is anything you can do in the future that will make me any more serious about leaving you than what has already happened over the past eight or so years. I can't leave you any more than I could make myself hate you after Amber died, or after you crashed Cuddy's house with your car and ran away. I love you. Sometimes I wonder if there isn't something in my genetics that makes it impossible for me to hate you.

"Secondly, I _will_ die someday, be it from cancer or old age. Everybody dies eventually. If you would only believe in yourself as much as I do you'd know that you are a survivor, and you would survive my death if you chose to. House, you can do anything you put your mind and will to doing. I firmly believe that. I also believe that you can find happiness inside yourself, but it's never going to happen so long as you continue to doubt and hate yourself. You're your own worst enemy, but that can change."

"Wilson, I told you that I can't change," House protested.

Wilson leaned down and pressed a kiss to House's lips. "I'm not talking about changing who you are but rather what you do and how you see things. As long as you keep yourself convinced that you can't change those things, you're right. You can't. But change your mind, and you can change everything else. I've thought about this a lot when it comes to my own life since my diagnosis. That's why I'm taking the sabbatical and making changes in my life. You're part of those changes. You are the most extraordinary person I've ever met. If anyone can turn his life around, House, it's you. I'll be here to support you any way I can. The choice is up to you."

"I'm just not sure you're right," House murmured. He sighed again. "I really want to go to sleep now. Goodnight, Wilson."

Wilson stared at him for a moment in silence before laying his head down on House's chest. "Okay. Just think about what I said, okay? Goodnight, House."

**Chapter One**

**Chapter Two**


	4. Chapter 4 Everybody DiesEventually

**Title: ****Cheater (4/4)**

**Author: pgrabia**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D. and its characters do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes only and I'm not making any money from this.

**Genre: **Drama/Romance

**Characters/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson/ House/Wilson slash.

**Word Count: **~3400

**Spoilers/Warnings: **General spoilers for all seasons up to and including episode 8x22 "Everybody Dies".

**Rating: R (M) **(to be safe)

**A/N: **How _I_ wish the series had ended: A re-working of the final scene in Episode 8x20 and AU from there. Thanks again to Clinic_Duty community for the transcripts of episode 8x22 "Everybody Dies". You will notice that the dialogue is some portions of this fic are taken directly from that and some are altered to fit my plot. No plagiarism intended!

You may want to read Chapters One through Three before you read this if you haven't already.

Unbetaed, sorry.

**Chapter Four: Everybody Dies…Eventually**

_House opens his eyes and finds himself in an old warehouse. There's a lot of smoke and the air is hot, acrid. He looks around and sees a workbench and a syringe on it. There is also a man lying prone a few feet away. It's Oliver._

"_Hey," House says, but Oliver doesn't respond. Lifting himself up to his elbow, House slides himself over to check on him. Where is this and how did they get here?_

_A familiar voice speaks. "Don't bother. He's dead."_

_House groans softly, leaning back against a wall. It's Kutner, which means he's either dead, dreaming, or hallucinating, and he's not certain which he would prefer to be. He closes his eyes then opens them again, hoping that the apparition is gone when he does, but it's not._

"_You're dead too," House tells Kutner, who responds by nodding at the floorboards beyond Oliver's corpse. An orange-red glow rises through the cracks, indicating a fire below them, which is very much alive and quickly consuming the factory around them._

"_The fire isn't," House's dead fellow tells him grimly._

_House can't remember even coming to be in the burning factory, much less with Oliver. He hopes this is all just a dream or hallucination, though a very depressed, morbid part of him wonders if he wouldn't be better off dying now, never having to face the loss of the one source of happiness he has in his life: Wilson._

"_You might want to get up and start heading for the exit signs," Kutner adds._

_House is at war with himself. His instinct for self-preservation screams at him to get his ass out of the building before it's too late, but his depression holds him in place._

"_For all I know, I already am up," House tells him. "More interesting question is why would I hallucinate an ex-employee who I last saw with a self-inflicted gunshot wound, as opposed to someone more…busty? Care to explain why _you're_ here?"_

_Kutner takes a wad of gum out of his mouth and looks around for a good place to put it. He decides that Oliver's shoe is the best place and sticks the wad to it._

"_The dead guy. Who is he? How'd you meet him?" Kutner asks._

_Uncertain why he bothers to tell his dream or hallucination how he met Oliver, House does anyway. He tells Kutner about meeting the patient in the clinic and running tests on him because of the Cullen's sign and then took the results to his team to work on._

"_You went to the clinic voluntarily, took on a mediocre case, and seemed to be in a good mood," Kutner observes. "Why so happy?"_

_House feels a little self-conscious and apprehensive about the question. "Because…because of Wilson. Because we're together now, but you already know that since you are just a part of my subconscious at work."_

"_So Wilson makes you happy?" Kutner asks._

"_Duh," House retorts, "I just said that. Pay attention, I'm much more with it than that…though I'll admit I have no idea how I got here. God I hope this is a dream."_

"_If Wilson makes you happy, why are you here, obviously depressed enough to consider not escaping a burning building while you still can?"_

"_Do you see my cane anywhere?" House asks, looking everywhere but at Kutner._

"_You're avoiding the question," Kutner points out. "Why?"_

"_Because you already know the answer, so why should I waste my breath?"_

"_Because you say that you're happy because you have Wilson yet you're doing nothing," Kutner replies, shaking his head. "Right now, I'm curious about why you're sitting on the ground instead of heading for the door." Kutner looks meaningfully at Oliver through the smoke and then again at the encroaching fire. "Guess we've figured out why you're seeing me; your _suicidal_ friend."_

_House says nothing and avoids meeting Kutner's gaze._

"_Why do you want to kill yourself?" Kutner asks, staring at him intensely. House looks around some more, sees the hypodermic needle. Is it his, or Oliver's? _

"_Well, here's a reason. If this isn't a dream, then that needle indicates that at some point I shot myself up with heroin. I can't even get stoned without some annoying jerk deciding I need to be deeply analyzed." House rubs his eyes, which are burning and watering from the smoke. "Isn't this just an incredibly simple calculation? I'm a drug-addicted jerk who's going to screw up everything again, only this time I'll be losing Wilson, so I'll end up completely alone. The guy I turn to when that sort of thing happens will be the one I've lost. All I'll have is my job, and not even that means as much to me as it used to. Do I need more?"_

_Kutner looked at him incredulously. "You think that's the sum total of who you are? A doctor? A friend and lover to Wilson?"_

"_I'm also a tremendous baritone. Now go away." House looks away from him, hoping that his subconscious will listen to him and obey. _

_Kutner sighs and takes a seat next to House at the wall. "Even with your subconscious, you're evasive. Death's not interesting. You exist for what's interesting. Puzzles, ideas, analysis. Death is the opposite of a cool puzzle. It's eternal nothingness. But you don't find life interesting anymore."_

"_Stop being an idiot!" It's Amber, now, and she's suddenly standing in front of House, who glances aside to see that she has replaced Kutner. _Great_, House thinks to himself._

"_Can I have Kutner back, please?"_

"_How much pathetic wallowing do I have to sit through?" she demands, appearing annoyed._

"_How are things in hell? Is the humidity the big issue?" House asks her snidely._

_Amber is unaffected by his sarcasm. "You have James now. You've been pining for him for years and now you know he loves you, too; only God knows why. You still have your job, your puzzles, yet you want to die? What's the matter with you?" She sighs. "What happened next with the guy's medical case?"_

"_Why?" House asks sounding exhausted._

"_Exactly," she responds. "_Why_ am I, meaning you, still obsessing about this case? Obviously we think it's relevant to why we're still sitting on the floor of a burning building."_

"_There was a code," House tells her, and then proceeds to relate to what happened. His surroundings shift and suddenly he and Amber are in the Intensive Care room, watching himself and his team as the code goes down. When Oliver begins to shout after receiving the naloxone, Amber laughs. Their surroundings shift again and now House and Amber are alone in Oliver's room with Oliver sleeping._

_House looks to Amber quizzically. "You're saying I'm lying… to my subconscious?"_

"_People do it all the time. And like it or not, you are a person," Amber tells him._

"_He said every one of those things," House says thoughtfully._

"_But not then and not like that," Amber pointed out. "This guy was going nuts from the naloxone. He couldn't be rational if you wanted him to be, which you did. Why?"_

"_I compressed the story a little—"_

"_Context matters," Amber tells him. "You never talk to patients for non-diagnostic reasons, but this guy…"_

_Their surroundings shift again, and now House is watching himself alone in Oliver's room, having their conversation about Oliver's drug use, and what it cost him. Everything shifts again, and House is in the burning factory again. Amber is sitting on the floor with him, using Oliver as a footrest and playing with House's cane._

"_Are you arguing that he's a good role model?" Amber asks, effectively echoing Wilson's reaction to the encounter._

"_He's happy," House answered almost wistfully. Amber shakes her head._

"_He's dead. You heard what you wanted to hear. The more interesting question — always — is why you wanted to hear it."_

_But House barely hears her, looking at Oliver again. "He's happy," he repeats._

_Amber is resolute. "He's dead."_

_House nods, not looking at her. Absently he wonders how it is that the smoke isn't as thick and black as a moonless night, choking and blinding him at that moment. "So are all his faults and his mistakes and his weaknesses. He can't fuck up again and make his life worse than it's ever been. Nothingness means no pain or sorrow. The opposite of sorrow is joy."_

"_But he's not joyful, either," Amber insists, gesturing at the corpse. "He's nothing, worm food, that's it. He'll never again listen to another piece of music with relish and fond memories. He'll never kiss a loved one again. He'll never be able to smell the sweetness of the air after a rain shower again. House, death isn't happiness. Death is nothingness. If you think otherwise then you're deluding yourself."_

"_Every patient that I've had, 70 years from now, they'll all be as dead as him," House nods at the corpse, "and my solving the puzzle and healing them will be worthless. If I screw up and lose Wilson, or the thymoma comes back and he dies, I'll be alone. Everybody dies. It's meaningless—life is meaningless."_

_Amber moves to sit next to House. "When you solve a puzzle, the world makes sense, and everything feels right. And you'll always have another one, because people always get sick. It's shallow and it's insignificant, but if you don't give a damn if idiots live, why would you __possibly__ give a damn about shallowness? It makes you happy. You have Wilson, and believe me, with the stunts you've pulled in the past he should have dumped you as a friend long before now, but he hasn't. I don't think there's anything you could do that would destroy the bond between the two of you. So you don't have to worry about losing him and being alone. And why would you need more than that? Go home."_

_House looks at her for a moment in thought then takes his cane from her. He's certain that he's either hallucinating or dreaming her and Kutner, but he's not as certain about the factory and the fire. He leans heavily on his cane as he walks to the fire exit and opens the door, only to be repelled backward by raging flames taller than he is. He quickly shuts it again and turns around. Amber is standing facing him, and some of the floorboards behind her are on fire._

_He's stayed too long; the fire is too strong, too hot. House notes that the space is 'L' shaped. He turns down the leg away from Oliver, hoping to find a safer way out that way. The floor under his feet nearly gives way and he stops short, nearly falling. He uses his cane, tapping on the floorboards in search of one solid enough for him to step on. The fourth board he taps snaps and the floor beneath his feet gives way. He cries out as he drops as far as his armpits, his lower body dangling above the space below. He tries to push himself up and out of the floor but the hole widens with his efforts and he falls the rest of the way, landing on the floor below, crumpling onto it. He screams as his bad leg takes a beating and sends mind-numbing pain through his nerves to his brain. _

_House looks around. This floor of the factory is completely engulfed in flames; he is surrounded by fire on all sides. Even the ceiling of this story, which is the floor of the story above him, is completely burning on the underside. This is it, he decides, he's done for. He begins to lose heart again._

"_What about God? You were leaving, and then you stopped. Why?" another familiar voice, not Amber's, says to him. House looks in its direction and sees Stacey sitting on a chair next to him in the only space that isn't on fire at the moment. Yet another 'ghost' to question him on his innermost motivations. Someone should have told her to bring a fire extinguisher._

_House raises himself up on an elbow. He notices that she's not wearing her crucifix. "Your theory is I'm not leaving, because I believe in God? What, he's calling me home?"_

_Stacey shrugs. "Maybe falling through that floor was a sign. Maybe that the universe hates you. Something. You really don't believe? Really? Not in some deep crack of some remote recess of some dark corner of your mind?"_

_He doesn't have to think about the answer to that question...he doesn't think. "No. Except that some deep crack of some remote recess of some dark corner is here telling me—" _

"_That's enough," Stacy encourages him, urgently cutting him off. "In a burning building, facing imminent death, that's _more_ than enough."_

"_Pascal's wager is facile," House argues._

_Stacy looks at him, frustrated. "Saying it's facile is facile. Why is it wrong?" House doesn't answer her so she continues urgently. "Don't be logical, _be desperate_. You _gotta_ have something to hold on to."_

"_You can't live your life based on something you don't believe," House tells her._

_She shakes her head. "But you can end your life based on something you don't believe? What about love? I lived with you for years. I know you believe in love. I know you love Wilson, and he loves you, Greg. Do you have any idea what your suicide would do to him, especially now that he's been given a second chance and the two of you have the rest of your lives to look forward to together?" _

_The world around them swirls and then settles again. House and Stacy are now standing in a dank, depressing cinderblock basement corridor of a hospital, perhaps PPTH. There is a distinctive smell of smoke mixed with industrial-strength antiseptic. Wilson, still in his work clothes, which are rumpled, sits on a bench along one wall as if waiting for someone or something. His entire body screams despondency, as if he has lost the entire world. _

_House opens his mouth to ask Stacy a question but she shushes him, nodding toward Wilson. From out of a door next to the bench Foreman enters the corridor. He too looks exhausted and defeated. Wilson looks up at him; House just notices that Wilson's eyes are red-rimmed and slightly puffy._

"_Coroner confirms it's him," Foreman says softly, his voice strained. "Dental records match. I'm…sorry, Wilson."_

_Wilson nods, rubs his eyes with both hands, a bitter expression on his face. "This is my fault—"_

"_No," Foreman interjects but Wilson only shakes his head, continuing._

"_He was afraid of losing me. If I hadn't kissed him, if I hadn't initiated our relationship we would still be just best friends and he wouldn't have been terrified enough about screwing things up between us. House would not have ended up in that factory. He wouldn't be a charred carcass in the next room. He'd be alive."_

"_This is not your fault, do you hear me?" Foreman insisted. "House…he was selfish and didn't bother to think about you or anyone else when he chose this path. You didn't make him do this."_

_But Wilson looks unconvinced. He gets up from the bench and walks away, past House and Stacy until he's through a set of double doors and is out of sight._

_The scenery shifts again, back to the burning inferno that once was a factory._

_Stacy shakes her head. "Wilson has always been your good side."_

_House is too shaken by what he has just seen to answer immediately. When he does it's full of snark. _

"I always wondered why I photographed so poorly."

_But Stacy is not put off by it. "And because he's always played that role, you've never had to develop a conscience of your own."_

"_People don't change," House insists. "Consciences don't spontaneously develop. I'll fuck up and lose him, or he'll die. I don't want to be alone."_

"_You're wrong, Greg," Stacy tells him, approaching and gently holding both of his forearms so he has to face her. "You can change. You haven't because you haven't had to—You've been looking to him to find what you have gotta find within yourself. Something you can find if you decide it's important enough to expend the effort to do so."_

_The room shifts around them and suddenly House is alone, standing on a bridge somewhere in the countryside, watching himself take a pee over the edge into the chasm below. Also on the bridge are two Victory motorcycles and perched on one is a healthy, happy-looking Wilson. No longer is he clean-cut and shaven wearing a business suit and ugly tie. Instead his hair is longer and a little on the wild side, and he's grown a scruff that mimics House's own. He wears leathers and holds House's helmet. This Wilson looks happier and more at peace than he ever has, and to House watching him and his doppelganger it's a beautiful sight. House in the leathers finishes his business, then returns to the bikes and mounts his Victory. He takes his helmet from Wilson and dons it, as Wilson dons his own. Wilson revs his motorcycle and then leads the way down the road with House following closely behind. Ahead of them is nothing but beautiful countryside and mile after mile of open road…._

House's eyes fluttered open, and at first he didn't know where he was. He sat up quickly—too quickly for his leg's liking—and looked around expecting to see the walls and ceiling alight with fire. Instead the room was grey, lit by the pre-dawn light streaming through the cracks of the blinds on Wilson's bedroom window. House was in Wilson's bed, and stirring next to him was a sleepy Wilson, whose eyes were fluttering. He sighed in relief; it had only been a dream. House's sudden movement had disturbed his lover's sleep. Two beautiful brown eyes opened and looked up at House questioningly.

"Hey, you okay?"

House nodded, lying back down. Wilson rolled over and wrapped an arm across House's chest. He kissed House's cheek.

"Did you have a bad dream?" Wilson asked sleepily.

House pulled Wilson even closer until he was practically lying on top of him. "Try weird. It started off terrible but ended good. Maybe you're right, Wilson."

"Hm? Let's mark this on the calendar: House admitted that Wilson is right."

A smirk of amusement crossed House's face. "We'll remember this day every year hereafter as Wilson Was Right Day. Think it'll catch on?"

"With me it will," Wilson agreed, smiling. "What again was I right about?"

"That I can change, if I really want to."

Wilson rose up onto his elbow, staring at House. "And do you want to?"

House said nothing for a moment then nodded soberly. "Yeah…a little."

Wilson broke into an ear-to-ear smile and kissed House on the mouth with passion. When he pulled away he said, "Good to hear. I'm behind you all the way. I mean that, House. I can't do it for you, but I can be a support."

House brushed a lock of hair off of Wilson's forehead. "I know. I'm gonna need it. Wilson?"

"Yes, House?"

"I'm happy with you."

Wilson kept smiling. "I'm happy with you, too, you old sap."

He settled back down next to House and had nearly fallen back to sleep when House said something that woke him right up again: "In the morning we'll call and book you into motorcycle lessons."

_**~fin~**_


End file.
